


High Stake Negotiation

by Jokemon



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:47:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29183529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jokemon/pseuds/Jokemon
Summary: Being a member of FIRSTLIGHT-- the Second Inquisition-- is rough work, buddy. Sometimes it's stressful enough to just make you snap. And when you snap in a sting operation, you usually die. But sometimes things work out. Kind of. It's complicated.This is a how my boy got turned for our game of VTM! I just wrote it down for my friends. But you can read it too if you like it. :)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	High Stake Negotiation

**Author's Note:**

> TW for violence and horrible intrusive thoughts.

Two men stand across from one another at a pool table worth more than their lives. “I don’t know, Strider,” says the one to the other, who is hunched over looking at the cue ball. “I think it’s bullshit.” The first man’s appearance is not important. Imagine him how you like. Strider--it’s always just Strider, see, last names are more professional and more importantly less personable-- is six feet even, offensively Irish in his ancestry, and wears a nice suit because he's in a professional environment. His red hair stays in an undercut.

“No it ain’t." He says. "The Shine rule is a goddamn institution.” Strider watches the overhead light-- the shine on the cue lines up with the shine on the eight. “Top left pocket.” And with a punch of the cue, he sinks the ball. “That’s the game.”

“Damn,” says the other man, a ghoul whose name does not matter because he’ll be dead in five minutes.

The heavy, decorated door slams open, and their employer storms in, red hair in a tight bun, face foul. “Morning, Miss Mercy.” says the other man. Strider stands up straight. He is, allegedly, a borrowed ghoul, a peacemaking gift from another Ventrue. He’s supposed to spy, give information about their social network. He’s also supposed to be Charmed to the gills, so he doesn’t say anything.

“Still your lowborn tongue,” says Belladonna Mercy, and the man’s jaw slams shut so fast his teeth click. This kind of fun back and forth dialogue is the norm for Belladonna. So full of herself. All vampires are. Their arrogance will, ultimately, be their downfall. It’s a very simple equation, really. He looks at himself in the mirror and knows that half the day doesn’t scorch his fucking skin off. The Inq calls them Blankbodies because they read blank on infrared. Strider likes to think that it's because their souls are blank too, or something. He hasn't investigated his particularly spiritual side in a long time, and the metaphor's half-formed.

Just looking at her-- knowing that she’s likely killed a thousand people, will kill a thousand more, a glutted parasite. It makes his teeth clench. But his face remains completely, carefully neutral. Years on this job have taught him well. “You. Come here.” She says. Ah, shit. Her taste is gingers, isn’t it? He walks forward, and he feels her cold hands on his face. “Handsome. Quiet. Good,” she says. “I can’t believe Lydia’s got you so charmed. She's no good with her Domination. She knows my type, at least.”

Lydia is twice dead. His superior, Ms. MacLean, had her staked and under a knife for three hours before she gave the okay for Strider to cleave her head from her shoulders. And now her opponent, or friend, or whatever the hell passes for anything in this cursed society, is about to sink her fangs into his neck. They say the Embrace feels good. Strider’s not interested in finding out. “I’ll just take a bite. Or more.” He would rather she not take anything more from them. His breath speeds up, just a little, his grip on the cue so tight his knuckles whiten. Neck snapping, gunfire, the thud-squish of a knife sinking into flesh, the smell of meat burning, the sound the butt of a pistol made hitting the back of a skull. These thoughts fill his mind, but he stands still. She leans over the granite desk, taking some pleasure in her power. “After all, I _own you_ now.”

Okay.

The pool cue snaps in half against the edge of the desk with a crack like thunder. She’s fast, but he’s faster, and the makeshift wooden point pierces her heart before his brain can catch up with his hate. He doesn’t know if she’s still conscious, but he avoids eye contact. He slides behind her, draws steel, and shoots over her shoulder. The ghoul’s grey matter, boiled by an incendiary round, ruins the upholstery on the pool table before he can even draw his gun. He doesn’t know if having a high-calibre handgun go off next to her ear hurts right now. But he fires again, just in case. He drops her like a sack of potatoes, and very casually jams three pool cues into the door-handle to bar it. He kneels, grabs her by the collar, and drags her along the floor. He looks at his watch. 7:12. The sun’s rising. It’s important for an inquisition member to know that.

So when he yanks the wood out of her heart, and she gasps awake, it’s just in time for her face to smash through the blackened glass on the high-rise, recognize sunlight, and start screaming. Vampire ego, again-- had to have windows. Had to look upon their domain. How’s that working out now? When he drops her, she doesn’t have eyes to charm him with anymore. She screams, rolling on the ground, clutching her face. They can still feel pain. Good. “Wow,” he says. “When they turned you, they forgot to put the quit in.” He's pretty sure she won't recognize what he's quoting. And then she doesn’t have anything at all, as he kicks her in the side and rolls her directly into the morning rays. He shoots out the other two windows, sits in her plush leather chair, and waits for the Blankies to burst in.

Two, three more turn to ash barging in. Part of that is the sun. Part is his gun. Stupid. _Sloppy_. That’s why they chose this group to infiltrate, after all. Mercy’s ego was as big as her body count. But a woman strolls up, just outside of the reach of the sun, and kicks the ashes off her enormous, chunky heels. A mini skirt, a white dress shirt, a suit jacket-- everything else pink. Blonde hair, face made up as far as he can tell but still hidden in the shadows. It’s such a weird look he almost lowers his gun. Almost. But the outfit, the look-- he recognizes immediately that this is someone who wants to be underestimated. Who uses it as a weapon. The way she steps in the ashes of her kind without blinking tells him what he needs to know. _She’s like me_ , he thinks, and then stops. Underestimation is a fine tool. One of the best in his arsenal. But besides that, what else could they have in common?

“Hi!” She says, almost sing-song.

“...Hi,” he says, before he has to play catch. An expensive purse sails through the air, thrown in a way to expertly avoid the sunlight, and she’s gone. Extremely expensive makeup. An old knife engraved with _BOSS BITCH_ in beautiful, flowing script, which he takes. A note.

_ur surrounded see you in the basement in 15 if u wanna live ❤ theres a mailslot down_

And then he dumps the rest out the window, where it falls in the rising sunlight and takes ten seconds to hit the concrete. He looks over at the mailslot, and the open windows, and contemplates jumping to his death. But instead, he sighs, scoops up Mercy’s ashes into a little plastic baggie, and prepares himself. It’s small. It’s dangerous. He looks at his shoulders, at the width of the slot. He backs up three steps, runs forward, and with the crash of metal goes down the chute. It’s claustrophobic, and he has to claw his way there at points, but finally he lands in a pile of letters and pulls his way out, drawing his knife.

The room is dark, and musty, and gross. _Click. Click. Clack. Click._ go the heels on concrete stairs, and the woman walks in again. Strider's been trained to recognize the feel of Blank powers. Which is why it catches him by surprise that, getting a better look at her, he thinks she’s painfully pretty before she even activates whatever ability she had. Then he stops, and thinks, _pretty? Am I five?_ before he suddenly thinks that she’s pretty neat, actually. Neat enough to lower his gun and not much else.

“You really did a number on Belladonna!” she says, and then laughs, sharp and grating, which he later learns she practiced for thirty years. “Who do you work for? Inquisition? Second Inquisition?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s a reflexive kind of dance. Denial is instinctive in his line of work. He remembers all kinds of things. Government destabilizations, disinformation campaigns, a winter night in Finland with an axe and a bodybag and a lot of soil to move. And now he hunts vampires. The world is wonderfully strange.

“That’s okay!” She chirps. “I’ll find out. ‘Cause you can’t kill like that without being trained! It was beautiful!” She claps her hands together, with the jingling of jewelry, and grins. “I’m here to make you an offer!”

“How wonderful,” he says, with all the enthusiasm of a wet dog.

“Well, two offers, really,” she giggles. “Both of them are that you die! But one is by my hand, and I’ll bring you back. And the other one is that security guns you down and you’re painted as a terrorist!” She checks her phone. The background is a beautiful oil painting of the JFK assassination.

“...Alright. What’s the first offer?” he asks, crossing his arms. Blankbodies are bad, sure. But he's not really willing to die and have his reputation buried under the Military-Industrial complex's shitty younger brother's heel. This is the best he's going to get.

“Well! It was really incredible how you did that. I want you to do it again, but for me this time! Not to me. But to people I don’t like! You’ll get to kill more Kindred! I’ll even pay you.”

"...okay," he says. And that prospect is alright. Killing more Blanks is always good. "What's your name?"

"Delancy!" And Delancy grabs his wrist, and pulls him up the stairs. More Blankbodies start to head towards him, murder in their eyes, but a single look at who has her hand around his wrist cows them. People _back away_ from her, and not just because she looks like she could rip their self esteem to shreds with a cursory glance and a scoff. Interesting. She takes him out of the building, in a path specifically designed to avoid sunlight. And in a limo with windows tinted illegally dark, she offers him a job properly. He hates that she makes it a joke. He hates that he finds it funny.

“Better hours. Just nights.”

**Author's Note:**

> While his sire is a Toreador whose obsession is the Perfect Kill, Strider, funnily enough, is a Caitiff. His spite powers him even now.


End file.
